He frowns, red whiskers twitching and brow pinching. It's a disapproving kind of look, though evidently has very little to do with Six's ambition to be a rider and everything to do with--
"An animal ought to have a name. You should speak with the tender and see that they give it one. It's not right to leave it without."
Children? Fine. Call them One, Two, Three-- Six, even -- until they're of an age where they're less likely to die on you. But an animal's short lived enough to warrant naming from the start. And it makes them more familiar, just like training them to listen to the click of the tongue or a little heel on the side.
Her eyes glance back down to the beast and she hesitates for a moment, wondering what she ought to say. It's not her place to try and give these things names, even if she had made a few suggestions. They're not hers to name; she will simply bond with one and ride it into battle, should it be necessary.
"They are choosing names soon, I think." Six nods her head. "I have given a few suggestions, but I do not know how welcome they would be."
Glancing back over, her lips twitch, just a little.
"You should give it a pet name then if they haven't said something official. Call him Feather or Chestnut or whatever you like. But he will like to be named something by you if you're meant to bond with him. Or her." Curled up in a ball like that and it isn't easy to tell, is it? "Whatever the proper name is can be for the papers or whoever minds them. There's nothing saying you can't call it something for your own."
It's maybe the most he's said in one breath for days, if not weeks. A kind of clipped, sharpishness to it that means it's a rare, real opinion. You can't go hanging about animals without calling them something even if it's just Sweet or Darling or Little Brother or whatever comes most easily to hand.
"I fear only that he would learn to think that it is his name when it is not. Perhaps they are smart enough that it will not be a concern." It certainly seems as though the one she is bonding with is big enough, but will his mind match it? She has been told good things about the wit and strength of the griffons, but she would not wish to do something to offend. She is already a foreign Rifter asking to bond with their precious native birds - she would not want to lose what she has been given.
She fears it, just a little.
Her eyes turn back to Marcoulf for a moment, drinking him in before she breathes out gently. Moving closer, she reaches, putting a hand on his arm.
He is clearly on the verge of disagreement - nonsense, animals are smart enough to know their different names; a dog can be called a thing by one master and then learn to answer to another spoken by someone else -, but before he gets there, her hand is on his arm.
Marcoulf doesn't sharpen or still at it. The contact is easy, untroubled, and nothing compared to the two of then trying to stab one another in the training yard. But what she says to follow it makes his face go blank. His hand hooked habitually over the pommel of the silvered sword closes into a fist around it, gripping so thoughtlessly hard that the ornate pattern of the raised metal digs into his fingers. After a taut moment, he gives her a curt nod in return without meeting her eye.
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"An animal ought to have a name. You should speak with the tender and see that they give it one. It's not right to leave it without."
Children? Fine. Call them One, Two, Three-- Six, even -- until they're of an age where they're less likely to die on you. But an animal's short lived enough to warrant naming from the start. And it makes them more familiar, just like training them to listen to the click of the tongue or a little heel on the side.
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"They are choosing names soon, I think." Six nods her head. "I have given a few suggestions, but I do not know how welcome they would be."
Glancing back over, her lips twitch, just a little.
"Perhaps one will be called 'Ten'."
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It's maybe the most he's said in one breath for days, if not weeks. A kind of clipped, sharpishness to it that means it's a rare, real opinion. You can't go hanging about animals without calling them something even if it's just Sweet or Darling or Little Brother or whatever comes most easily to hand.
Honestly.
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She fears it, just a little.
Her eyes turn back to Marcoulf for a moment, drinking him in before she breathes out gently. Moving closer, she reaches, putting a hand on his arm.
"I thank you for the advice. I respect it."
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Marcoulf doesn't sharpen or still at it. The contact is easy, untroubled, and nothing compared to the two of then trying to stab one another in the training yard. But what she says to follow it makes his face go blank. His hand hooked habitually over the pommel of the silvered sword closes into a fist around it, gripping so thoughtlessly hard that the ornate pattern of the raised metal digs into his fingers. After a taut moment, he gives her a curt nod in return without meeting her eye.
"You're welcome."